


got hands like an ocean

by ohmcgee



Series: ohmcgee's mallverse [58]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Retail, Blood, Borderline Personality Disorder, Cutting, Dissociation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, mallverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 11:44:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10876086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmcgee/pseuds/ohmcgee
Summary: Sometimes Harvey thinks everything would be so much better if he just took off again.





	got hands like an ocean

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags. In fact, let me repeat them here because I don't want to hurt anybody. 
> 
> This fic contains:
> 
> \- a character being admitted to the psych ward  
> \- Graphic depiction of self-injury/cutting and blood.  
> \- Self-sabotage and negative self-talk  
> \- Co-dependency and abandonment issues  
> \- Anger issues  
> \- Unreliable narrator  
> \- Someone being mean to Jason Todd
> 
> So yeah. I had to write this for reasons, but take care of YOU and do not read it if you feel like any of this might trigger you. <3

When he’s twenty-nine, five years after he quit the band and in his last semester of law school, Harvey gets put in the hospital. Not the nice, normal one where you get questionable jello and people bring you flowers and teddy bears and sit and watch shitty tv with you, the _other_ one. The one where they secure Harvey’s hands to the bed with velcro straps and inject something into his IV that makes him the kind of fuzzy that he hates. It makes him feel like his skin isn’t his skin and his mouth isn’t his mouth, making words that don’t belong to him, screaming terrible, horrible things at the people trying to help him. They’re _just trying to help him,_ they keep saying, over and over.

Harvey eventually passes out with the taste of iron in his mouth, murmuring Bruce’s name until everything goes dark.

  


: : :

  


When Harvey wakes up, his face hurts like a motherfucker. The memory of what happened, of what he did, is too foggy to grasp, either because of the drugs or the state he was in when he did it. Probably both. All he can remember is looking in the mirror and hating the thing that looked back at him. It didn’t feel _right,_ it wasn’t _him,_ and it made him so fucking angry that there was some goddamn imposter looking back at him that Harvey threw his fist into the mirror.

Then he picked up a shard of glass that had fallen and --

Harvey knew he was under there somewhere, the real him. He was just hiding beneath all the other layers, all the people he had to pretend to be to please everyone else, all the personalities he’d tried on over the years, never finding the right fit. Harvey knew what he had to do. He just had to cut away the parts he didn’t like. It was simple.

It hadn’t even hurt until now.

Now there were bandages on his face and they itched, but his hands were still strapped to the bed, so there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He wiggled his nose side to side, but that only made it worse.

“Hey!” He shouted. He had no idea if anyone could hear him, if anyone even cared. He didn’t even know where he fucking was. “I’m awake and I’m fucking thirsty you cocksuckers!!”

He didn’t have to be nasty about it, but it felt better to scream and yell, like he was exorcising the crazy out. The nurse who finally came in brought him pills and juice and he was tall with broad shoulders and dark hair and eyes that were almost the right shade of blue.

Harvey spit the seroquel right back in his perfect face and called him a cunt.

  


: : :

  


After he broke up the band Harvey thought about Bruce a lot. It never ended well. He thought about him while he sat in class, thought about him while he fucked his way through professors and classmates, thought about him at three in the morning when he couldn't sleep and everything was quiet and he could swear he smelled Bruce’s cologne on his pillow.

He’d been thinking about Bruce the night he cut up his face. Reading Bukowski always made him think of Bruce, all the long, philosophical conversations they used to have, high on whatever they had lying around and just talking and talking until sunrise. Harvey knew leaving had been all on him, but he missed Bruce so fucking much sometimes it felt like there was a hole in him. Harvey hated Bruce for being the kind of person he missed, but mostly he just hated himself for being the kind of person that never was.

Bruce had moved on. Bruce had a kid, a job, a new life that didn’t involve him in any way, shape, or form. A life that was ten times better than anything he and Harvey ever had or ever could have and there was no place for him in it anymore.

Maybe when he’d picked up the shard of glass Harvey had thought he could carve himself into something Bruce would like, cut out all the bad shit that made him be an asshole and made people leave him. Maybe he thought if he cut deep enough that he’d finally find something about himself that he liked.

In the end, all Harvey found was that dried blood itched like hell and in the psych ward no one brought you flowers.

  


: : :

  


“Nah,” Harvey says. He’s supposed to be sitting still in the chair across from Dr. Ramirez, but instead he’s roaming around the room as they talk. “The last guy -- lady? I don’t remember. Anyway, last psych person I saw said it was bipolar ‘cause of how I stay awake for days and do crazy shit like rearrange all the furniture at four in the morning.”

“Right,” Dr. Ramirez says, tossing Harvey a squishy stress ball to mess with while he wanders around. It feels like a water balloon with sand in it, but it has the hospital's name stamped on it. “The two disorders can present so similarly that it’s difficult to pinpoint, especially without consistent treatment. Borderline --”

Harvey laughs loudly, startling the doctor. “Borderline _what_? Borderline crazy? Doc, not for nothing, but I think we crossed that line a while back.”

“Have a seat, Harvey,” she says and Harvey obliges, but only because she doesn’t usually ask. He squeezes the ball, squeezes, squeezes, until it feels like a tiny knot in the palm of his hand. “I want you to have a look at this. It might help you understand some things. It’s difficult to diagnose properly, but with your history and the fact that you exhibit so many of the symptoms...”

Harvey tunes out whatever she’s saying as he looks down at the xeroxed piece of paper she gave him. He looks at the faded black letters in sixteen point helvetica font centered at the top of the page. Beneath that are about a dozen bullet points telling him all about his shiny new diagnosis.

The ball in Harvey’s fist bursts and the sand escapes between his fingers. He tries to catch it, to keep it from making a mess everywhere, but he can’t.

He _can’t._

  


: : :

  


Being with Bruce again, and with Jay, is good. It’s _good_ , but sometimes _he’s_ not good and that has nothing to do with them. Harley says it has more to do with his abusive, asshole dad and being so little when his mom died, but he’s still not sure if he should be getting therapy from a girl with pink and blue hair that works at three different stores in the mall.

He knows she's right though because sometimes Jason and Bruce can love him as hard as they want and Harvey won’t feel any of it, like he’s wearing fucking armor and it just bounces right off. Sometimes he can be on the couch in between the two of them, Bruce’s fingers in his hair and Jason rubbing his feet and still feel so fucking alone that he has to hide his tears in Bruce’s shirt because he feels like such an asshole for not being able to appreciate what they’re giving him. He knows he doesn’t deserve it.

Sometimes Harvey stays glued to his phone all day long, bouncing back and forth between Jay and Bruce, depending on when Jay has class and Bruce is in meetings, like it's physically hurting him to go more than two minutes without hearing one of their voices.

Sometimes Harvey thinks everything would be so much better if he just took off again.

  


: : :

 

The first time he really loses his shit it’s because Bruce has to work late and Jason forgets to tell him he’s picking up a shift at the mall that night. It hasn’t been a particularly good day anyway, so when six o’clock rolls around Harvey starts watching the clock, each tick of the second hand like the beat of a drum in his head. He’d made some boring baked chicken and green beans for dinner and as soon as it starts to get cold Harvey’s panic sets in. Then, like always, the panic turns to anger.

It doesn’t matter that he knows it’s stupid. Beneath the rage, Harveys rational mind knows Jay’s class probably ran late or that he likely just dropped by the store on his way home to get dog food, or that Bruce didn’t get out of the office until late because that happens all the time, but tonight his rational mind isn’t in charge _._ Tonight he just _can’t._

It feels like.

It feels like they don’t fucking _care._  Jason couldn’t fucking call and tell him he was going to run by the store? Bruce couldn’t at least shoot him a goddamn _text_ to say he was on his way? Seriously, how hard would it be? It’s just so fucking inconsiderate, like they don’t give a shit about how he feels or what he’s going through and _fuck them._ They don’t care about him. They’re too busy wrapped up in their own lives and in each other to even have time for him. Sure, they pretend to care, but they really don’t. Just like everybody else. Just like --

Harvey throws his glass at the wall and balls his fists up when it shatters against the orange paint he put there last month. He wants to do more than that. He wants to smash every glass in the house. He wants to punch a hole through the wall. He wants to take every one of Bruce’s stupid fucking first editions and throw them in the fucking pool. He wants to text Jason and say _fine, you win. He’s all yours. Fuck you both._

He’s sweeping up the shards of glass when Bruce walks in a few minutes later.

“Hey. What happened?” Bruce asks, stepping around the mess and moving behind Harvey to kiss his neck, the back of his ear. He smells like fast food, so he probably ate on the way home, assuming Harvey wouldn't want to cook tonight. Actually, he probably stopped to get something because Harvey can’t cook as well as his little wifey does. Or maybe he thinks Harvey’s too fucking helpless to even bake some fucking chicken breasts. Maybe - -

“I just dropped a fucking glass,” Harvey snaps and flinches away from Bruce when he reaches for him. “Get the fuck out before you cut yourself.”

When Bruce goes upstairs Harvey finishes cleaning up the mess, all but one tiny sliver that he clutches in his palm as he slides down the wall and sits on the floor. He drags the tiny sliver of glass across the back of his hand and watches the blood seep from the cut. It doesn’t hurt that much, but it gives him something else to focus on. He makes two more lines, the sight of blood calming him, then gets up and throws the shard of glass in the trash with the rest.

He tells Bruce and Jay the next morning that the stray cat Damian brought home last week scratched his hand up and he can’t help but think that if they actually cared about him like they said they did they would know he was lying.

  


:  : :

  


“They don't know?" Harley asks, big straw hat and white, heart-shaped glasses on her head as she helps Harvey weed the garden.

Never in a million years would he have guessed growing an herb garden would be something he’d be good at, much less enjoy, but then there’s a lot of things he never expected. Like getting disbarred. Like buying a ridiculous dog collar that spells out _Prince_ in swarovski crystals. Like being in a relationship with Bruce again, and a blue-haired, punk rock Martha Stewart at the same time.

Like getting psychiatric help from a girl with more holes in her ears than a cheese grater.

“You’re kind of the only person I’ve ever told,” Harvey shrugs and drags the back of his hand over his forehead to wipe away the sweat. Spring didn’t stay long this year and he already misses the snow.

Harley gives him that _look_ that he knows means she’s about to ask him something he doesn’t want to answer.

“So you’re fine with them thinking you’re bipolar, but not this?” She yanks out a particularly stubborn weed and gets dirt all over her face, but doesn’t seem to care. “They’re both just labels, aren’t they?”

Harvey laughs bitterly. “Right. Sorry guys, I don’t actually have the somewhat manageable mental disorder you think I have. I’ve got the one that makes me a giant fucking asshole, has no actual cure, no magic pill, and ruins people’s lives. Oh and by the way, the scars on my face? Yeah, I put those there. Because I'm so much crazier than you think I am."

Harvey sighs and stabs his spade into the dirt. “You know I can’t even remember what lie I told Bruce about that. Or if I told Jason the same one.”

“Sounds like the truth would be easier then, if ya ask me,” Harley shrugs, like it’s that fucking easy.

Not a fucking thing in Harvey's entire life has been easy.

Harley just grins at him over the top of her glasses as they slide down her nose. “Didn’t say _easy_ ” she smirks, like she can read his goddamn mind. “Just easi _er_. You know, might take some of the stress off if ya don't feel like you’re hiding something all the time.”

“Yeah,” Harvey mutters and picks his spade back up. “Maybe.”

He’s still not going to tell them, but yeah, sure.  Maybe.

  


: : :

  


It doesn't get better. But then, Harvey knew it wouldn't. This is how it goes. This is what he _does_. He’s funny. He’s charming. He tricks people into thinking he’s something he’s not. He worms his way into their life like a parasite, latches onto them, then sucks the life out of them until they have nothing left to give.

He's already been here too long.

Jason comes home from his eleven o’clock class on Tuesday. He gives Prince a treat for not jumping on him when he walks in the door, puts his books down, then goes straight upstairs. He didn’t look at Harvey, didn’t say hi, nothing. Between this and Bruce not even bothering to tell him bye before he left for work this morning, Harvey thinks he might as well be invisible. Even the fucking dog gets more attention than he does.

He’s teeming with rage, but at the same time it’s calming in a way, knowing that this is it. He’s finally reached the inevitable point in the relationship where the other person, or in this case people, don’t want to put up with him anymore. It’s awful, of course, but there’s a sort of cathartic feeling mixed in with the misery. He doesn’t have to wait anymore to see when he’ll fuck up enough to drive them away. He doesn’t have to keep wondering _is this the day I’m too much?_ The moment is here. The wait is over.

Harvey turns the tv off and slams the remote down on the coffee table and when he turns around Jason is standing right there, giving him a funny look.

“Hey,” he says hesitantly. “Everything okay?”

The bitter laughter tastes like bile when it comes up. “Like you fucking care.”

Christ, he hates himself. He hates doing this. The worst part of all of this is that Jason and Bruce are good people. They don’t fucking deserve this. He doesn't deserve _them._

“Um,” Jason says, the corners of his mouth turning down. “What’s going on? Did I do something?”

“No,” Harvey snaps again, his tone hostile and acidic. “You didn’t do fucking anything.”

“Harvey,” Jay tries again, softening his voice. “What’s wrong? Just talk to me, man. Whatever I did --”

“Don’t,” Harvey grits out. “Don’t fucking stand there and pretend you don’t have a clue, okay? You’re smarter than that, kid. You and your fucking hair and your piercings and your goddamn tattoos and...like Bruce was _ever_ going to give a shit about me again once he got to stick his cock in you. I mean I can’t really blame him, you suck dick better than any whore I’ve ever -”

“What the _fuck,_ Harvey,” Jason says and the anger wrinkling his forehead is almost comforting to Harvey, familiar. He feels centered, like he finally knows what’s going on, how to act. This is a game he knows how to play. “Seriously, what the fuck. Bruce --”

“ _Bruce_ is going to get tired of you,” Harvey says. “You realize that, right? You might be a fucking fantastic lay, but you should know Bruce has always had a pretty short attention span. What are you going to do when the honeymoon period is over and you’re not fucking every hour of the day? Sit around and _talk_?”

He laughs even though he feels like throwing up. He laughs so he doesn't cry.

“It’s not going to _work,_ Jason. You know that,  I know you do. You know that one day he’s going to get tired of you just like he gets tired of everyone else, just like he got tired of me. He’ll probably tell you he still loves you, that you mean so much to him. He’ll say he wants to keep in touch and he’ll be a fucking _liar_. He’ll forget about you. He’ll forget all about you and that time you played house together and move on with his life and maybe one day you’ll stop by for a visit and you’ll get to meet his new boyfriend from the 7-11.”

“Shut up.” Jason’s voice is small and he’s shaking. Harvey wants to stop, but he can’t. This is who he _is._ Jason needs to know. He needs to see it. Harvey’s tired of pretending. He's so fucking tired. 

“Nah,” Harvey says. “You took everything from me. I think I’ll talk all I fucking want.”

“Harvey,” Jason says and the hole inside Harvey’s chest gets bigger and blacker when Jason looks up and Harvey sees the tears welling in his eyes as he sets his jaw. “Get out.”

Something inside Harvey breaks at that point. Like a dam.

Like a major artery.

And then everything shuts down.

“Yeah." He says. "See ya, kid."

Harvey leaves with nothing but his shoes and the wrapper from the granola bar he’d been eating still in his hand.

He walks on the shoulder of the road until a truck approaches, then sticks his thumb out and hitchhikes back into town. He looks out the window as the old man tells him about his time in Korea and Harvey says words back to him and feels nothing.

  


 

 


End file.
